Taking Care of Business
by ruefulgirl
Summary: Dean walks in on Sam getting some action. Sam is less than pleased with this turn of events. Or is he? EXPLICIT.


They've just torched the corpse of a nasty old undertaker and stumbled back to their rented kitchenette covered in ectoplasm, and Dean grabs the first shower. He's pumped up on adrenaline like usual, and like usual he only wants to do two things afterward: drink and get laid. Sam, however, is tired and sore and hungry, and while drinking and getting laid hold some interest for him, having some quiet time to relax without his attention-deficit brother around sounds even better. So Sam escapes into the shower as soon as Dean heads out the door for the nearest skanky dive, smelling of aftershave. He spends his time in there, cutting his toenails and checking for ear hairs without Dean bitching at him to get the hell out of the bathroom already.

Later, after Sam has wasted several hours watching re-runs of Gilligan's Island and the world sumo wrestling grunt-off in a kind of mesmerized horror, he shuffles into the kitchenette to scrounge for food.

The drenching in ectoplasm has kind of spoiled his appetite for dinner, but crackers or cookies or some other kind of junk food sounds good right now. Unlike most every place they've stayed, this room actually comes stocked with spices, soup mix, and… hold on there a minute – a small bottle of olive oil. He just stares at it for a long moment, unable to think because all of the blood in his brain plummets in the direction of his dick. There's also this uncomfortable tightness in his throat (and how weird is it to be both sad and turned on at the same time) because he's remembering he and Jess in the kitchen of their old apartment, him peeling garlic and Jess tossing it into a frying pan with just this brand of olive oil while they tried to make shrimp scampi without the butter. In the end, they burned the garlic and cooked the shrimp so long it shriveled into tiny white, chewy lumps. Then Jess playfully doused her fingers in the olive oil and let them walk down Sam's chest and into his shorts.

They'd ended up making love on the floor.

He closes his eyes for a moment, remembering the sight of her on top of him – her perfect white breasts and curvy hips, her red red lips pressing kisses down his chest, soft and teasing, then opening just wide enough to slide over his cock. She'd been so good at giving head, her skillful tongue sliding and laving and tormenting him …

His dick is waking up now, reminding him that he hasn't been laid in … oh, what feels like years – hasn't even jerked off in nearly a week and what's up with that? Dean might not even be back until morning. Carpe diem.

Sam turns off the TV and all the lights save for a lamp near the bed with a dim bulb. Taking the olive oil with him, he lies down on the bed, and thinks about that time in the kitchen.

He splays his hand across his stomach where it rests on tight muscles there, moving up and down in time with his quickening breath. Under his shirt, he ghosts his hand over his skin back and forth gently, teasing lightly, like Jess used to do.

It's not the same.

Lifting his hips, he shimmies his briefs down to reveal his half-hard cock. He unscrews the bottle of oil and pours a little pool of it in his palm. This is not the time to skimp on lubrication. He lets it spill across his cock, smoothing it up and down the shaft to keep it from dripping all over the bed. Slick sensation envelopes him. A few firm strokes bring him fully erect.

Looking down, he sees his red, engorged cock, veins standing in relief, slit widening as he grows harder. The oil glistens as it covers the length of his dick, spreading over and around the ridge of the head. It feels … yeah, it feels so good. Warm and hard and not as heavenly as Jess's sweet mouth, or even someone else's hand, but it'll do. His strokes speed up and the familiar build up toward orgasm begins deep in his balls.

Out in the hall, someone bumps against the door, cursing and grumbling.

He freezes, thinking: _It's just some drunk stumbling by and fumbling at the wrong door_.

Except that the fumbling sounds an awful lot like a key in the door.

_Shit! Not now, please not --_

The door bursts open and Dean barrels his way in, calling out, "Sammy! Sam-may, my boy, whatcha up to--"

Sam jams his dick back into his briefs and yanks the corner of the bedspread – which he was unwisely laying atop of – over his jutting erection.

He's breathing hard and there's no way – no frickin' _way_ – that Dean won't figure out what he's been doing. Sure enough, Dean's eyes go wide for an instant, followed almost immediately by a knowing smirk.

"Sam, you horny devil, you. Caught you jacking off, didn't I?"

Oh, God. Could this be any worse? Dean will never let him live this down. Sam feels his face burning up. He puts his hand—the _other_ hand—over his eyes and groans in sheer, abject humiliation.

Dean makes his way in between the two beds and flops down on his with a grunt, sending a whiff of JD and some bimbo's perfume over Sam. That's when Dean notices the olive oil sitting on the bedside table and cocks an eyebrow at Sam knowingly. "Kinky bastard," he grins.

"Dean!" Sam cries, mortified.

"Now don't be like that, Sam. It's not like you never caught me choking my chicken."

As a point of fact, he _hasn't_ ever caught Dean in the act before. Sure, he's heard him jerking off in the shower, or late at night in the darkness when he thinks Sam is asleep. But he's never actually walked in and saw his brother entertaining Rosie Palm and her five little helpers like Sam has been doing.

Dean leans back, fingers threaded behind his head, looking entirely too satisfied with himself. He sighs, that half-drunk, relaxed, well-fucked sigh he has when he's tired and happy.

"Sorry for interrupting, Sammy. If I'd have known I would have waited out in the hall for what? Three more minutes?"

"Dean, I _don't_ want to talk about this." His voice sounds squeaky. Yet another thing to be embarrassed about.

"No reason to be embarrassed. You think I don't know you jerk off? Hell, you'd have to or your head would explode or something. I mean, how in the hell long has it been since you've been laid, anyhow?"

Six months and four days. But who's counting?

"Look," Dean says. "I'll make it up to you."

Sam slides him an incredulous look. "Yeah? How exactly are you going to do that?"

Dean gives him an easy smile. He's always like this when he's had too much to drink – outgoing and affectionate. And talkative. "I'll roll over and you can go back to what you were doing," he says in what he probably thinks of as greatness of spirit. "I promise not to peek."

"_What?"_

"You heard me. I mean, seriously, Sam." He's talking slower than usual, more carefully. Which is how Sam knows he's hit the bottle too hard tonight. "It's just not healthy to go so long without sex. Not that I've ever tried it, mind you, but I've read about how it can mess your plumbing all up."

"Yeah? And let me guess where you read about this: the Purple-Headed Warrior Weekly, right?"

"Ha ha. That's a good one, Sam. I'm trying to be helpful here."

"Yeah, you're a regular Mother Theresa," Sam grumps.

His cock is just about completely deflated now. He lies back with a huff, staring at the popcorn ceiling. Things are quiet for about 10 seconds when Dean asks, "Need a little help there, bro?"

Sam looks over at him. "No, Dean, I don't want any help. I want you to sleep it off."

"Come on, don't be like that. I'll tell you about the babe I just had, and believe you me, you won't have any trouble getting off when you hear about the things I've been doing."

Sam pinches the skin at the bridge of his nose and says tiredly, "Dean, this is going to come as quite a shock to you, but I don't want to hear about you and some tramp you met in a pool hall. I mean, seriously, dude – don't you worry about VD? Or herpes, or something?"

"Hey! I use protection," Dean protests. "What kind of guy do you think I am?"

Sam gives him a look.

"Whatever, dude."

Sam rolls over, hugging one of the pillows to him and trying to will himself to go to sleep. "Turn the light off, will you?"

Dean toes off his boots, strips down to his underwear, and flicks the light off just like Sam wants.

They lay in silence for about a minute.

"So, her name is Shannon. Or Sharon. Shelly, maybe? No, I'm pretty sure it's Shannon. Anyhow, her hair is all curly and soft and hangs down almost to that dimple above her ass. And _what_ an ass that girl has: round and smooth--"

"Shut up, Dean," Sam says.

"Yeah, you're right," Dean says indulgently. "Let me start from the beginning. So I'm playing pool with some wet-behind-the-ears college kid – not unlike yourself – and I notice her right away. She's sitting at the bar chatting with the bartender like they've known each other since grade school or something. And she just kinda looks over her shoulder at me – she's wearing one of those stringy dresses, the kind that shows all that skin on a chick's back – and she gives me this smile like she wants to eat me for dessert. Well, of course I smile back, but I can't quite make it over there yet. I mean, I'm ready to cream the college kid and I've got all night for her, right?"

"Dean, I do _not_ want to hear this. I don't care what you've been doing. I just want to go to sleep, okay?"

"No, not so much. Just listen. You won't be disappointed, dude. I can promise you that. So, there I am, creaming the kid at pool, and she must be getting a little impatient because she sends a beer over for me. I hurry up and end the game then, even though I probably could have taken the sucker for at least a hundred more. But priorities are priorities, right? So I go up to the bar and we talk for a few minutes. Then she asks me to drive her home because she's got a wedding to go to in the morning and needs her beauty sleep. But when we get to her apartment she says, 'keep me company for a little while, stranger?' And how am I gonna resist that? I mean, this chick is _built_, Sammy. She's not too skinny, curvy in all the right places, and I can tell just by looking at them that her tits are just a little bigger than a handful and firm as melons."

"Dean, for the love of God, please, _please_, just shut the _hell _up."

But Dean doesn't shut up, the bastard. Just keeps on talking like he's lost in another world. "We barely get in the door and she's all over me, man. And I've gotta tell you, I've had more than a few shots of Jack at this point so I'm not exactly up to snuff in the downstairs department if you know what I mean. But hey, I'm not gonna pass up an opportunity like this, so I go to town as well. Man, she's a great kisser. She has these really luscious lips, really soft, and I swear – I swear, dude – she's so good at sucking and nipping at me that I can't keep from thinking how good those lips would feel around my cock."

_Damn it, Dean. Did you have to mention the exact thing I've been fantasizing about?_ Sam thinks. And despite himself, he's getting interested in what Dean's saying, because hey, it's not like he talks about this stuff with anybody else. The ladies really like Dean, and maybe his brother knows a thing or two that Sam doesn't. So maybe he should listen. In the interests of continuing education.

"She's making these sounds, too. Little, I don't know, cries that are so fuckin' hot. And now Little Dean is getting really interested, you know. Especially when she pushes me up against the wall and slides her fingers under my shirt. Her fingers are warm, but she's got these long fingernails and she's scratching lightly up my chest and around my back, not enough to hurt but damn does it feel good. I'm shivering all over and she's smiling and saying little things – 'You like that, baby? I'm gonna make you come so hard you aren't going to be able to move for a week.' And now_that _– that is what I like to hear, especially since her voice is all low and raspy-like. The next thing I know she's got my pants undone and she's sliding them down around my knees."

Sam's briefs are bulging now, and he's having a hard time breathing normally. He's imagining the scene just like Dean's telling it, except he's the one being pushed against the wall. He lets his hand rest atop his dick, not doing anything, just letting it rest there.

"That girl knows how to move, Sammy. She goes down on her knees, all slinky and smooth like a cat or a dancer, yeah, that's it; she's like a dancer who's in control of her body – comfortable with it. Then she puts her lips around my cock and let me tell you, man, I can feel my eyes rolling back into my head." He gives a little moan like he's feeling it all over again. And now his voice lowers an octave. "Her mouth is so hot and her tongue is licking and sucking and swirling and it doesn't take much of that before I'm harder than a brick."

He hums in the back of his throat, all warm and contented, and that sound? It does something to Sam, sending a spike of pleasure down his dick. He slips his hand down his briefs again, wraps his long fingers around his aching cock again and slowly, ever so slowly, starts to slide his fingers up and down, up and down.

He sees the dark outline of Dean's chin and face. He's still looking up at the ceiling. Dean clears his throat, seems to come back to himself.

"So … where was I? Oh yeah, the cocksucking. That girl's mouth was gonna get me off right then, so I pull her up and start guiding her over to the bed, and she's peeling clothes off left and right as we go. When we get to the edge I lift her up under the arms and lay her back on the bed and God, Sammy, you shoulda seen her lying there all naked and spread out, smiling this mischievous little smile, one hand flicking her clit, the other tugging me over on top of her."

Sam's sweating now. His cock is aching and he's not even trying to masturbate quietly anymore. His hand is heating up the olive oil, which has been keeping him still slick and ready, as he beats off, his strokes getting faster and faster.

"I couldn't wait to start kissing her all over. She seems to like what I'm doing because she's moaning and thrashing her head back and forth. Then I start eating her out and fuck! She throws her head back and arches her spine and if the neighbors haven't heard anything before, they're sure as hell hearing something now, cause she's so turned on she's almost sobbing. She tastes so good. You know what it's like when you bite into a ripe pear, and the juices go gushing down your face? Well, she's like that, so wet and sweet."

And that image? Pretty much sent Sam on a collision course with an orgasm. He's panting now, and making needy sounds in the back of his throat.

Dean's still talking – saying something about how he plunged his cock into her – but Sam's pretty much past thinking about Dean right now. He's just thinking – _pressure_ and _harder_ and _gotta_ _come _and _now! _With a groan, he arches his back and comes all over his hand and stomach. And God in heaven, but he can't remember ever coming that hard by his own hand before. Dean's mumbling on, but the urgency of his words has left and he's rapidly losing steam.

Sam doesn't even know what he's saying because the combination of his thundering heartbeat and panting breaths drown out all other noise for a long moment.

By the time Dean makes a sleepy noise and turns over, Sam can hear again. "I always take care of you, Sammy. Don't I?" He slurs, his words soft and drowsy. "Dad was always telling me to take care of you … that's all he wanted …" he trails off then, his breath deepening. He gives a little snort that ends in a snore.

Sam lays there thinking about how Dean's right. Dad was always telling Dean to take care of him.

Somehow, though, Sam doesn't think this is what he'd had in mind.

--

End


End file.
